Jonathan Rogers - The Way of the Wilderking

Dobro was still jumping up and down on the Aidanites’ poster when three men emerged from the forest. They were older than the three travelers, well into their forties. Each wore a tunic of green homespun and a flattened black hat adorned with an egret feather. All three wore swords, though the swords looked like something they might have found in a grandfather’s old trunk. They looked familiar to Aidan; they were villagers he had seen at the Hustingreen market growing up, but he had never known their names. A red-bearded fellow appeared to be the leader of the trio. When he swaggered up to Dobro, the feechie stopped what he was doing and looked curiously at the red beard thrust within a foot of his face.

The villager looked Dobro up and down, from his matted hair (it hadn’t come clean during his bath in the Tam) to his one black eyebrow, to his gap-toothed mouth, receding chin, and prominent Adam’s apple to his thin, hard arms and legs and bare feet, and finally to the crumpled wad of palmetto paper beneath them. He had never seen anyone like this scrawny, pinch-faced lunatic defacing the poster he had hand lettered himself. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

Dobro looked down at his feet, a little surprised that the fellow had to ask. “I think I’m stompin’ on a piece of paper I snatched offa that there tree,” he answered, pointing a black-nailed finger toward the tree he spoke of. “Now that I think about it,” he clarified, “I know that’s what I’m doin’. And when I find the fool what tacked it to the tree, I’m gonna tear him into little pieces.”

“Well, you’re in luck, stranger,” said the red-bearded man. “’Cause you just found the man who put that poster up.”

“Haa-wee!” Dobro shouted, clapping joyfully. “That was a heap easier than I figured on!” He felt sure he would fit in fine among the civilizers if they were all like this red-bearded fellow. He hopped a circle around the Hustingreener with his fists raised. “Come on, civilizer,” he called, “let’s mix it!”

Dobro’s opponent looked at him with astonishment. “Who are you?” he asked. Dobro stopped hopping. Of course! A feechie fight had to start off with a rudeswap. A civilizer fight, apparently, had to start off with introductions. He was still learning civilizer ways. “I’m Dobro Turtlebane,” he said, “from Bug Neck.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing southwest toward the swamp he called home.

“Bug Neck?” said the red-bearded man. “Never heard of it.”

“You know, Bug Neck,” Dobro repeated. “A day’s polin’ east of Scoggin Mound?” The villager still looked blank. Dobro was a little annoyed. “In the Feechiefen!”

The three Hustingreeners squinted at Dobro. “Feechiefen?” one of them muttered. Then it dawned on them. No wonder this fellow looked so strange and acted even stranger. “He’s a feechie!” one of the men gasped.

The three men stared wide-eyed at one another. The sandy-haired one was the first to speak. He quoted a snatch of the Wilderking Chant: “‘Leading his troops of wild men and brutes.’” And together the three of them quoted the next line in reverent tones: “‘Watch for the Wilderking!’”

“This is a sign,” the red-bearded man said to his companions. “This fellow’s a sign, I’m telling you. If there’s a feechie in Hustingreen, Aidan Errolson can’t be far behind.”

“You said something there, feller,” Dobro said. “Matter of fact, he ain’t no more’n five or six steps behind.”

The Hustingreeners looked past Dobro to Percy and Aidan. They had found Dobro so peculiar that they had paid very little attention to the civilizers with him. Aidan’s looks had changed since he had last gone to market in Hustingreen, but now that they had a good look at him, the three villagers recognized him.

“Aidan Errolson,” one of them said in hushed tones.

“Hail to the Wilderking,” said another. His eyes were glistening with tears of joy.

The three Hustingreeners elbowed past each other to be the first to kneel at Aidan’s feet.

“Your Majesty!”

“Our king in exile, returned to us!”

“Command us, our sovereign!”

Their voices quivered with emotion.

“Get up! Get up!” Aidan demanded. There was anger in his voice. Embarrassed, he looked around to be sure no one else had seen this unseemly display. “Your king is Darrow, not me,” he said sharply as he waded through the kneeling Aidanites.

“Listen to him,” said one of the Aidanites as they scrambled to their feet to follow him. “He’s so humble.”

“Nothing like King Darrow. Not like King Darrow at all.”

“That’s what Corenwald needs in a king-somebody who’s not going to try to grab all the power for himself.”

Aidan stalked with long strides toward the village, and Percy and Dobro strode with him. The three Aidanites trotted to keep up.

“I’m Milum,” said the red-bearded fellow, “and this is Burson and Wash.” Aidan didn’t even acknowledge them and didn’t offer to introduce his brother Percy who, though he understood this was a serious situation, was finding it very hard not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“We just knew you’d come straight to Hustingreen when you came back.” Milum had begun speaking so fast he could hardly catch his breath. “I remember when you were a boy. You probably don’t remember me, but I remember you. You’d come on market days, and one day you kicked a ball under my cart and I kicked it back. But you probably don’t remember.” He paused a moment to give Aidan a chance to say something like “Sure, of course I remember that,” but Aidan looked straight ahead as if he hadn’t heard anything. So this is what Aidanites look like, he thought. So these are the fools threatening to tear this kingdom apart.

They were within a hundred strides of the village of Hustingreen by now. Burson and Wash ran ahead shouting, “Aidan Errolson is here!” and “The Wilderking is returned!”

Meanwhile Milum continued his monologue. “Hustingreen’s a major Aidanite stronghold, you know. Of course you know. It’s almost your home village. Everybody in Hustingreen has an Aidan Errolson story. Every old lady in the village says she could tell, even when you were a little boy, you would grow up to do great things.”

Percy pinched Aidan’s cheek, a gesture that had always made him redden when he was a little boy. He slapped Percy’s hand away.

Milum yammered on. “Just yesterday an old boy at the militia drills was telling a story about the time you…”

Aidan stopped in his tracks. “Militia drills?” He looked hard at Milum. “What militia?”

Milum laughed a nervous laugh, not sure whether Aidan was putting him on. “Why, the Aidanite Militia, Hustingreen unit.” He stood up straight, raised his chin, and popped his right fist against his heart. This, apparently, was the Aidanite salute. He gestured to his green tunic and plumed hat. “This is the Aidanite uniform.”

Aidan could feel his face grow hot. “This militia,” he said, barely able to keep his voice down. “Whom do you propose to fight?”

Milum looked askance at Aidan. Surely Aidan was pulling his leg now. “Of course you know that! ” he began. But seeing Aidan’s eyes narrow, he cleared his throat, straightened his posture, and recited the official answer: “The purpose of the Aidanite Militia is to stand in readiness to protect the motherland from all who would threaten the common good… sir!” He gave Aidan a knowing wink.

The impertinence on Milum’s face infuriated Aidan. “Don’t you know that this is treason?” he shouted.

“To train yourselves to fight against your king? If you think I would lead a revolt against King Darrow-my king, your king-you are mightily mistaken!”